


Covet

by americanphancakes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Sex, Dan Howell Is Not A YouTuber, Existential Angst, Improper Use of a Rosary, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Misuse of Crucifix, POV Dan Howell, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Priest Kink, Religion, Religious Discussion, Rope Bondage, Smut, priest!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanphancakes/pseuds/americanphancakes
Summary: The only thing making Dan feel alive is his all-consuming crush on the new deacon.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 65





	Covet

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait on this - I started it last fall for a phanfic bingo entry, then worked on it for the smut flash fest last week, and only just now finished it. Yay me!
> 
> THIS IS PURE SHAMELESS ROMANCE NOVEL FANTASY. There is nothing realistic about this, nothing that would be safe or even okay about a lot of it. Read the tags!! XD
> 
> Okay now enjoy your filth, my naughty little monkeys.

For my whole life, I’ve known on some level that I have no right to exist. And that maybe none of us do. We’re all corrupt and selfish and terrible. Recently I even learned that the universe itself shouldn’t exist. Existence is a paradox; matter and anti-matter somehow decided not to cancel each other out, so here we are. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For matter and anti-matter to finally come together and give us the nonexistence we no doubt deserve.

Maybe that’s why I still go to church after all these years.

It’s not that I believe. I haven’t for a long time. But I  _ want _ to. It’s comforting to hear lies about there being a purpose, an order, a plan. That maybe the universe exists because some bored old man willed it into being and he loves us too much to let matter and anti-matter collide into nothingness. It’s like a bedtime story where the good guys always win and happiness prevails.

And yet sitting in this pew every Sunday hasn’t stopped me from feeling like there’s no purpose to anything. I sit there trying to listen, trying to take in the majesty of the ornate church, trying to feel loved when I look up at the image of Mary in stained glass. I drop to my knees, clamp my hands together, lower my head, and shut my eyes tight, trying to block out the pain of living and focus on the love and reverence I’m supposed to be feeling.

I feel nothing.

We have a new deacon this week. He’s moved down here from Manchester and is trying to spread God’s word or whatever. I don’t care. I’m staring at the Bible in the back of the seat in front of me. The leather at the top edge of the spine is worn. The bookmark ribbon is hanging out and I can see that the end is a bit frayed. The gold embossing on the cover is a bit scratched, but still shines.

The deacon, Deacon Lester, goes to speak and as I hear him breathe in, I expect the same dull droning of rotely repeated platitudes or, if it’s a particularly exciting week, the impassioned fury of a man desperate to save us from ourselves, save us from damnation.

Instead, when I hear his voice, I hear music.

Deacon Lester believes in humanity’s potential, that we can attain salvation through Christ, that love is the answer to all things and that God is Love. His voice is like silk. A pleasure I should not be allowed. His words are kind. A joy I do not deserve.

_ He must be young, _ I think to myself.  _ Still untainted by the cynicism and guilt that takes all of us eventually. _

So, curious, I look up at him.

And I feel.

***

This is the very essence of sin.

I am defiling myself, images in my head of another man touching me in ways none but a spouse should, much less a  _ man _ . And yet I want only to kneel before him. The divinity of Christ is nothing next to the divinity of this man. If there is a God, I am guilty in His eyes of so, so much sin and yet it is delicious to me.

This road, the road to Hell, is paved with such exquisite pleasure. I walk it freely. I never believed anyway, so I allow myself the luxury of letting go of my guilt for this one blissful moment.

My left hand wraps around my painfully hard cock, dancing violently around it. The twisting and pulling of a heated tango between lovers.

I imagine dancing with Deacon Lester. The sweat on my brow is real, though. The panting breaths are real.

My body writhes, I gasp, and I imagine I see a heavenly light the second my orgasm hits. He is in my mind, my gut, and my heart, and now the thought of him has dressed my belly in white.

That man has brought me closer to believing in God than anyone I’ve ever met.

***

Two weeks later. The believers have all departed. Deacon Lester is holding his Bible in one hand, preparing to return to his small office on the side of the church.

I am standing, but cannot bring myself to take a step towards the doors of the church. That would mean turning away from him. I cannot. And yet I cannot speak, either.

“Er--” I manage to choke out.

When he raises his shining blue eyes towards me, they flicker, reminding me of two white-hot stars against the dark void of space. “Yes?”

“I…”

His eyebrows lift expectantly. I am paralyzed. He senses my nervousness, but doesn’t know the source of it. He smiles gently. He is so kind.

“Would you like to speak in my office?” he says. Several of my fantasies have begun just this way, but his tone of voice was very different in those scenarios. It’s lower than this. Darker. In real life, Deacon Lester has no ulterior motive for inviting me to speak with him privately. For being disappointed by reality, I consider myself a piece of garbage next to this perfect being.

“Er… n--no… it’s okay,” I say bashfully. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out as nothing more than a shaky exhalation.

The Deacon nods once. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here the rest of the day. I’m free until evening prayer. You’re welcome to speak with me anytime you need to.”

I don’t deserve to breathe the same air he does.

***

It’s become as much a part of my Sunday routine as going to church services. I go to mass in the morning, and then, when I go home, I worship him.

I kneel on the floor, the carpet burning my skin as I dream that I’m on my knees for him. I dream of kissing his feet and his hands, and drinking of him as though his essence is holy wine. I dream of pushing him against the wall by his wrists, our arms outstretched. I dream of kissing him deeply, and the electric pulse that shoots through my entire body leaves me drowning in heavenly bliss for one perfect moment before it's all expelled from my body in screams of ecstasy and ropes of my cum all over my chest and fingers.

I’m filthy. I’m disgusting.

And I love it.

***

As he speaks during mass several weeks later, I look left and right to see that the other well-behaved believers have all closed their eyes as they pray. I lower my hands to my lap and press hard into the bulge that’s grown with every syllable, every breath Deacon Lester blesses us with. I wonder how no one else can hear how perfect his voice is.

Eventually, everyone has cleared out for the day, and I have to catch my breath.

“Deacon Lester?” I call to him before I can stop myself.

“Yes?” he says brightly.

His hair shines in the midday light pouring through the windows. He is angelic. I want to ruin him so badly. I want to reduce him to raw, animalistic, earthly humanity. I want to corrupt him. I want him to feel my skin against his skin and be lost forever to imaginings of carnal passion and wanton lust. If I’ve been wrong and there is a God, then either Deacon Lester can cleanse me, or I’m going to Hell with him by my side.

“Would you still be willing to speak with me?” I ask. I keep my voice quiet, as though I’m ashamed. I look at him through half-lidded eyes and I don’t fight the blush coloring my cheeks.

“Of course,” he replies, and gestures for me to follow him.

His office still looks mostly unoccupied, the bookshelves half-empty. As I sit in the ornate chair that faces his barren desk, my mind conjures a beautiful, depraved image of Deacon Lester having his way with me on top of it. I imagine the cold surface of the desk warming under the movement of our bodies. The very concept of the church catches fire.

“Would you mind if I anointed you?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk in front of me.

I blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“I’d like to anoint you. Just as a gesture of kindness, since you’re entering my office as a guest.”

“Doesn’t that require being one of God’s chosen?”

“Bold of you to assume we’re not all chosen,” he says with a smirk.

“We can’t possibly all be chosen.”

“We can’t only  _ some _ of us be chosen, either. We’re all God’s children, after all.” He opens a drawer in his desk and reveals a bottle of oil. “Anyway, my family have always anointed guests who visit our homes. It’s tradition for us. It’s not something people typically do these days, I know, but everyone I’ve anointed has been appreciative.” 

I don’t answer immediately.

Deacon Lester begins to look flustered. “You don’t have to say yes unless you want t--”

“Yes,” I say suddenly. “You.. you can. I’ve never… I mean, I don’t know what it’s supposed to do, really, but… okay.”

He smiles, then, not with relief or honor but the delight of seeing someone enjoy a birthday gift they’ve been surprised with. He shines.

He opens the bottle and pours a drop of oil on his thumb. He leans forward, and the room darkens in my sight as he hovers above me like a shelter from a storm. The oil smells earthy and sweet both at once, like cooking smoke and candy. The tips of Deacon Lester’s fingers are resting carefully on one side of my head, and his other hand is lifting my chin slightly. I cannot breathe as he slides his oiled thumb along my skin, drawing the sign of the cross on my forehead. He releases me and I take a breath in. He smiles proudly.

“Thank you,” I cannot help but say.

“I am not the one bestowing a gift,” Deacon Lester says, sitting in the surprisingly modest chair behind his desk, a huge contrast to the comparatively opulent one I’ve found myself in. “Your thanks should go to a somewhat higher power.” His smile is like a warm blanket. Comfort radiates from him like sunlight.

“I should apologize, then” I say finally. 

“Why’s that?”

_ Because I’m not a believer, _ I think.  _ Because I’m only here to be closer to you. Because I want desperately to kiss every inch of you. Because I am a demon hoping to one day tempt you. _

“Well, the… the reason I’ve come to speak with you is because… I don’t feel like God is with me anymore. Honestly, I haven’t for a long time. I never felt comfortable speaking to Father Reynolds about it, though, ‘cause he… well, if I’m honest, he scares me a bit.”

“He is a bit intimidating,” Deacon Lester says with an understanding grin.

“Yeah,” I continue. “Until you arrived, I guess I just… thought I’d have to suffer in silence, I suppose.”

“How very Catholic of you,” he says. The smile has not left his face, it’s only taken different forms. Pride, humor, friendliness, amusement. It is as though he only knows different varieties of joy, and no other emotion. I briefly wonder how he would react to pain -- would he cry, or would he smile and thank God for the punishment he surely deserved? Would he be angry, or would he be grateful? Would he just enjoy it, and if he did, would he admit it to himself?

“Well, you can take God out of the boy but you can’t take the guilt. Or something.”

This poorly-thought-out reply makes him laugh. I am once again briefly unable to breathe.

“It’s perfectly normal to have a crisis of faith at some point,” he says. “Many people do. I did once.”

“You did?”

“Yes. When I was in my early teens, I… I went through something where... everything I’d ever been taught was called into question. There was so much about my life that I simply couldn’t reconcile with the lessons of the church.” He looks distant and sad. I don’t let myself believe that perhaps he had the same crisis I did. It would be far too convenient. And even if there is a God, there is no chance He loves me enough to give me that convenience.

“What did you do?”

“I studied. I lived and breathed God’s word until I understood the truth. That God is love. Christ taught peace and tolerance and kindness without exception, and that is what I choose to teach now. Not simply fear and guilt, but belief in God’s forgiveness. What matters is what’s in your heart. If you truly set out to do good and be good, you will reach God’s kingdom.”

I nod.

“Deacon Lester?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask a sensitive question?”

“I will answer if I can.”

“What… what should I do about… well, it’s just that… I’m frequently tempted by impure thoughts. I don’t set out to have those thoughts, they just happen.” I gulp. I know he notices.

“And… do you act on them?”

His voice is low and dark. Reality no longer seems so disappointing. Now it's a thrilling sort of terrifying.

I close my eyes nervously, feeling my face heat up. “God says not to lie, so…” I take a calming breath. “I act on those thoughts on my own, yes.”

“Then you are hurting no one and must forgive yourself, my child.”

His voice stings my ears like poison and warms my stomach like hot cider. 

“Should I confess?”

He nods once. “It would ease your conscience, I think. Afterwards, go home and pray, and release the burden from your mind. God knows your heart.”

“Can I confess to you?” I ask hesitantly.

“I can’t absolve you,” he replies. “You’ll have to confess to Father Reynolds for that.”

“Oh, of course,” I reply, embarrassed because I should have known better. He’s a Deacon, he can’t give me absolution. But I never pay attention anymore. And now he probably knows the degree to which I'm utterly elsewhere during services. Mostly, though, I’m afraid of talking to Father Reynolds about this. He’s an angry man. It’s entertaining to watch from afar, but I don’t want to risk being faced with it. Deacon Lester can see the discomfort in my face, and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Perhaps we can practice though?” he suggests.

***

We walk to the confessional on the opposite end of the church. I’m not sure why I feel the need to do this. I am not practicing a confession to make it easier to release a burden. No, I am confessing not to God, but to the Deacon, in the hopes of lighting a fire. My body is on autopilot as I walk behind Deacon Lester. He enters the priest’s side of the confessional booth, and I open the door to the confessor’s side. I walk in and kneel.

The partition slides away, and Deacon Lester’s face is partially obscured by the window between us. But I can still see his perfect lips, his shining eyes.

My chest feels like the weight of the world rests on it. I want to wrap my fingers around his neck just enough so he knows how I feel. 

Instead, I do the sign of the cross and clasp my hands together.

“I can never remember,” I say nervously, “Do I say ‘forgive me’ or ‘bless me’?”

“Technically it’s God who does the forgiving,” Deacon Lester says. “I’ve always said ‘bless me, father’ but you can say whichever you’re comfortable with.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I begin. “It’s been… It’s been twelve years since my last confession.”

“Father Reynolds won’t judge you for how long it’s been,” Deacon Lester replies. “You know that, right?”

“I know he won’t, but I know it’ll feel like he is judging me.”

“I understand,” he replies with a sympathetic nod.

“Anyway, um… I’ve had impure thoughts… about… about a man.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but I’m stuck. It’s been too long. And I worry the next detail will give away that I mean him.

“How many times?” he asks, guiding me through the confession process. 

“Six times now. Well… six specific occasions, but I um… I indulge my fantasies more than once per occasion. The fantasies themselves happen once a week.”

I see his eyes narrow.

“In these thoughts of yours,” he asks, “is the man sodomizing you, or you him?”

“Neither,” I say honestly. “I touch him, and I taste him, but… It goes no further than that. I want to, but… I don’t know. My mind doesn’t let me take it that far.”

“And do you touch yourself when having these thoughts?”

“You already know I do, Deacon Lester.”

“I know, but we’re rehearsing, remember? You have to be comfortable with confessing to Father Reynolds.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. Why does Deacon Lester have to be so kind and charming? “I know it’s wrong, I know I should stop, but… yes. I do.”

“Do what?” Deacon Lester says, his voice suddenly low. “Say it. He might not ask.”

“I masturbate thinking of him,” I say.

I perhaps imagine his face turning pink as he nods. “For what it’s worth, I believe God would not see this as a mortal sin.”

“Why? Isn’t masturbation always a mortal sin?”

“Not always,” he explains. “Only under certain circumstances. If you have a habit or addiction to it that’s hurting other people or preventing you from having a relationship with God, then it is. But I don’t think the Lord would see it that way here. God, in His wisdom, made sexual intercourse pleasurable, knowing that humans would use their free will to experience that pleasure whenever they could and that human beings would multiply. You are not evil or corrupt for seeking that pleasure on your own. You are hurting no one.”

“What about… what about being gay? The fact that I’m thinking of a man, it’s...”

“Christ taught us forgiveness. We must also forgive ourselves, my child.”

I wish he would stop calling me that. But I also want him to never call me anything else.

“God made us,” he continues, “and God does not make mistakes. We are who we are.”

My breath nearly stops. “Deacon Lester?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to answer if this question is too forward, but... by ‘us’, do you mean… I mean, was your crisis of faith the same as mine?”

Deacon Lester’s very slight smile is only barely visible through the partition. “Yes, my child.”

I smiled back. “We know our own, I guess.”

“Maybe  _ you _ do,” the Deacon says, shaking his head, “but I do not usually have that kind of luck.”

I smile. “You celibate, then?”

“Not by choice,” he says. We laugh.

There is a moment of quiet as we look at each other through the partition. I feel.

“Was there anything else you wanted to confess?” he asks me.

I open my mouth. I want to say it. I want to seduce him. I want to fuck him in the confessional booth. I want to make him dream of me as I dream of him.

“No,” I say.

He does not smile. He nods once, and slides the partition closed.

***

By the end of that night, I feel the need to say a thousand Hail Marys. I imagine the scent of the oil on his thumb, the feeling of his calloused reader's fingers upon me, the shine of sunlight around him as he takes me again and again on his desk.

The next time he asks who sodomizes whom in my fantasies, I'll have an answer.

I scream and spill all over myself. As my breathing slows to its normal rate, I wonder what the point of cleaning myself up would even be. I am defiled. I am irrevocably corrupted. 

I smile. I feel.

***

Sunday. 

I attend evening mass instead of morning. I wear a white button-up shirt and perfectly pressed dark gray trousers. I look perfectly well-behaved, pure, and pious. I follow every part of the service, not missing a word. 

I haven’t confessed yet, so I shouldn’t take communion, but I do anyway just to feel Deacon Lester’s fingers on me again. Just to show him my tongue. Just to feel him pour wine into my mouth while I’m on my knees looking him in the eyes. He holds my gaze longer than he should. He does not smile kindly, the way he usually does. But his eyes seem to shine with mischief that I hope I'm not imagining.

When it’s all over, and mass is done, I walk into his office without knocking. He’s already removed his stole and is untying the cincture around his waist. I close the door behind me. He glances back for just a moment. He smiles, of course, but there’s something different about it this time. Something more sinful. My entire body vibrates with anticipation.

“I missed you this morning,” he says.

“Did you?”

He nods. “I really did,” he says. His voice is low again. My chest tightens around the butterflies trying to escape.

“What’s your first name?” I ask.

“Philip,” he replies. “But just Phil is fine if we’re going to be close.”

“Are we going to be close?” I ask, my eyes narrowing slightly.

“I’d like us to be.”

“In that case… my name’s—”

“Daniel, right?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“‘Only God can judge me,’” he says, reciting my name's meaning. “I’ve never known anyone with a name that suited them so well.”

His robe comes off, revealing his usual black shirt and trousers. He finally turns to face me while he removes the white collar from his neck.

"How close would you like us to be?" I ask.

Philip -- Phil, I suppose -- walks up to me, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Then the second. Then the third. I realize he’s not stopping. Soon enough, the room darkens again once he's close enough that we can feel each other's breath. He runs his fingers up through my hair, slowly grabbing it at the back of my head. I gasp as he suddenly tightens his grasp and yanks back, forcing my eyes to meet the crucifix on the wall behind him. He leans forward and puts his lips near my ear.

“Close enough that I wanted you to know what name to scream,” he says. My eyes widen with surprise and utter delight. He kisses my jaw, nibbles at my earlobe, and runs his tongue down the side of my neck.

“Ah… in that case...” I moan weakly. “Just 'Dan,' please… oh god please don't stop…”

“It was me you thought about, wasn’t it, Dan?” he hisses. “Me you wanted to touch. Me you wanted to fuck.”

My breaths are shallow and rapid, but I manage to squeak out a broken and desperate “yes.”

“Do you want to fuck me now?” he asks. His voice is still low and deep, the texture of it rattling me to my core and buzzing inside me.

“No,” I say breathlessly. I feel his fingers loosen their grip on my hair, and he looks horrified until I speak again. “I want  _ you _ to fuck  _ me,” _ I explain, my voice clear and even so he cannot mistake my intent.

He smiles darkly and his grip tightens again. “Good,” he says. “You’ll tell me if anything I do is too much, yeah?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good. Now… do you have any requests, my child?”

I moan weakly in response to hearing him say that. “Please… please don’t stop calling me that. My name is fine, but… fuck, please,  _ please _ keep calling me ‘my child.’”

“You like that?” he says. I nod as best I can with my head forced backward the way it is, and he smirks. “Okay. One condition, though.”

“What?”

“Call me Father.”

My cock hardens like a fucking diamond at the sound of his request, either because of his apparent ambition or because I have a daddy kink previously unknown to me. “Yes, Father,” I reply without hesitation.

He lets go of my hair, pushing me down to the floor. I collapse, placing my hands on the floor to the side of me. I slowly look up at Phil as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and shrugs it off his shoulders. He is beautiful like this, but in a completely different and much darker way than he’s ever been before. His chest is exposed, his strong arms on display for me to gaze at, the front of his black trousers pushed forward. His eyelids are lowered as he looks down at me. He is intimidating. I want him to take me.

He unfastens his belt, unbuttons his trousers, then unzips them, exposing plain black boxer briefs underneath. He pushes everything down, exposing his enormous hard cock. I whimper at the sight of it. He could hurt me with that. I hope he does. My mouth waters. My eyes want to tear up preemptively.

“Do you want it?” he asks.

I nod.

“Can I be rough with you?” he asks. “Or do you prefer a gentle touch?”

“Be rough,” I say, my voice somewhere between a growl and a purr. “Please.”

He grabs my face, pushing my cheeks in and forcing my mouth open. He uses his free hand to hold his cock by the base and aim it at my mouth. He thrusts his hips forward and pushes himself toward the back of my throat.

I adjust my position so I’m properly kneeling before him. My knees hurt, pressed down on the hard floor like this, but the gift of my pain is what he deserves. I give him my subservience in exchange for his touch. 

As he ravages my throat, I gaze up at him reverently. The eye contact is intense and only serves to increase my feeling that Phil is some sort of lesser deity using magic on me. I’m sure I’m already addicted to the feeling of him using me this way. He then groans and rocks his head back, his face toward the heavens, and I close my eyes and lean into my work. I swallow the tip of his cock as best I can, and he keens loudly at the feeling of my throat closing around him. I moan in response, and the vibration makes his cock twitch against my tongue. He pulls away suddenly.

“No,” he says breathlessly. “Not yet. I’m not done with you yet.”

I tremble at his words.

He grabs the top of my arm, forcing me to stand. “Stand there,” he says. "All your clothes. Off." I obey as he walks to the back corner of his office. I consider undressing slowly to tease and be seductive, but the urgent tone of his command echoes in my mind and I hurry to remove everything I'm wearing.

I'm vulnerable now, standing bare in the middle of his office. I'm naked and uncorrupted and pure, but I know that won't last.

He bends down to pick something up off the floor, then returns to me.

He holds up the cincture in his hand. I don’t see clothing anymore when I look at it. Just rope. My heart is pounding. I want this so badly. Whatever he’s planning, I want it.

"Lean over my desk," he says. "Face down."

I walk to his desk, suspicious of (but grateful for) how perfectly adherent to my fantasies this is. Before I can bask in my excitement too much, Phil pushes me down and pulls my wrists behind my back. He ties them together. The cincture is soft and the desk is cold. I get goosebumps, and my nipples harden at the competing extreme sensations.

He pauses for a moment and I can feel the cincture dangling down, lightly resting on my ass. He pulls my legs up by the ankles to bend them up, keeping my knees apart as he rests them on the edge of the desk. This action pushes my chest forward and I roughly slide against the desk as Phil manhandles me. The cincture is lifted away from my ass and I feel it being wrapped around my ankles.

My arms and legs are immobile, and I'm exposed. And I trust him.

I’m helpless to do anything but watch Phil's statuesque naked body as he slowly paces around the desk. I can feel the beat of my heart against the desk’s cool surface. Eventually, holding my head up to watch him makes my neck ache and burn, so I rest my cheek on the slick, hard wood beneath me. My eyes are on the crucifix against the wall again.

“I wish you could see yourself,” Phil says. “So beautiful. God sent you to me, my child. You’re a gift I’ve been given.”

It’s hard to breathe, hearing him call me a gift. That’s all I want. To be a gift just for him, to be a toy he can use as he likes.

I can’t see him for a few minutes as he rifles through his things - the office doesn’t have much in it, but I suppose he has a bag here and a box there that aren’t unpacked yet. When he comes back into my sight again, he has a moderately large crucifix in one hand and rosary beads in the other. The rosary is broken and tied off, though -- as if someone has deliberately made it a string of beads rather than the traditional necklace. He puts the crucifix down on the desk, on the side where I can’t see.

“Have you said your prayers, Dan?” he asks me.

I whimper and nod.

“I think you need to say more.”

I hear the sound of the oil bottle opening -- the bottle of his consecrated anointing oil -- and I gasp in anticipation.  _ What is he planning? _ I wonder.

After a moment, I feel something push against my hole. Phil easily pushes it in.

“Say one,” Phil says. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," I rattle off quickly. "Bessed art thou amongst women, and… uh... blessed is the fruit of thy womb-- oh, fuck,  _ Jesus." _ Phil wiggles the bead a bit, and tugs a bit as if to prove to himself how tight and virginal I am. "Mmh… Holymarymotherofgod… ahh... pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." I'm panting.

Phil slaps my ass lightly. "Say 'Amen,'" he growls. 

"Amen," I whimper.

"You good?" he asks me.

"Oh, yes," I exhale.

He pushes another rosary bead into my puckered, quivering asshole. I moan, not merely at the feeling of it, but also at the wrongness, the sinfulness of this.

"Say another," Phil commands.

I say another Hail Mary. He pushes the next bead in, and then I say another. Then again. And again. Soon I'm breathless and panting, and a much larger bead is waiting at my entrance.

I feel something warm and wet --- Phil's tongue - tracing a circle around the bead, stimulating my rim perfectly and relaxing me. I keen as Phil pushes the larger bead into me.

"Now say an 'Our Father'."

I’m panting. But I say it. Phil massages my ass as I speak, and it pushes the beads around ever so slightly.

By the time I say "Amen," my face and chest are sweaty from the slow stimulation. I can feel the beads inside me, and if I twist my hips just right they brush against my prostate. I moan.

“None of that,” Phil says. “I can’t have you enjoying these too much. Otherwise, what fun will there be for me later?”

I feel one bead, then another, then another slowly pull out of me. The last one pops out and I whimper at the empty feeling. I squirm, but can’t get the friction I crave.

“Don't worry," Phil says in a sinister but saccharine way. "You won't be empty for long."

I hear him lift something from the desk where I can't see. His anointing oil is open again. The smell of it mixes with the smell of my sweat. 

Phil lets me see it, then; the oiled-up base of this crucifix is rounded off, clearly deliberately crafted or filed away so only the broadest of curves remain, as if to prevent injury. Christ's feet look strange like this, but I'm not thinking about that. Nor am I thinking about the gross defilement of such a sacred symbol. No, I'm only thinking about where those rounded-off feet are about to go.

"May I?" Phil asks.

"Oh fuck yes please please yes," I cry.

The crucifix disappears behind me, and it's quickly positioned at my eager hole.

"Relax, my child," Phil says in a breathy voice.

I do.

The crucifix slides in gently, and I keen, lifting my head from the desk. My hands can't grab anything, so I dig my nails into my palms.

Phil slides it back out, then in again. Deeper and deeper each time. Faster and faster. I can feel Jesus' knees inside me, then his waist. Phil's knuckles, gripping the most sinful sex toy ever created, are soon enough ramming hard into my ass cheeks. I hope they bruise.

I'm screaming louder and louder, calling out Phil's name, begging him to push into me harder, pleading that he never stop.

My cock is in pain, I'm so close to cumming. 

And that's when he stops.

He pulls the crucifix out slowly and puts it down. As he gently unties my wrists and ankles, saying nothing, I worry that it's over. Did I do something wrong? Moan in an unattractive way?

But no.

"Get up," he says, wrapping his cincture around a fist. It's hard for me to keep my balance now, but I do as he commands. He clears off the desk, holding the oil in his unwrapped hand, and lays down lengthwise. "Come on," he says impatiently.

I climb atop the desk, straddling Phil's hips. I can feel his cock pushing up into my taint and balls. He's as painfully hard as I am. The pressure makes him grunt.

His eyes run up and down my bare upper body. He bites his lower lip. "My child, you are… simply beautiful."

"Thank you, father."

He presses the bottle of oil into my hand. I look at him, silently asking if I'm meant to use it the way I think I am.

He nods.

I pour oil onto my hand, then lift myself up on my knees enough to reach under myself and hold his cock. Holding eye contact with Phil, I smoothly spread the oil all over his rock-hard shaft, lingering on the head until I feel precum leaking out.

"Stop stalling," Phil says through gritted teeth. "I need to fuck you." It's practically a whine.

I smirk.

I set the bottle down and sink slowly, oh so slowly, onto his dick. His mouth hangs open silently until I rotate my hips, grinding into him. He throws his head back and screams.

"You like when I do that, father?"

"Oh fuck yes," he says loudly. 

"Yes what?" I ask with a pout.

"Yes, my child."

He runs his fingertips up and down my chest as I grind on him faster. Soon enough, Phil is unable to hold back any longer. He grabs my hips and pulls down while bucking his own hips hard into me. He speeds up, and I can barely breathe under the effects of his thrusts. They're too fast, too hard. He's slamming into me and calling my name and I can only grunt and pant and he's pushing me over the edge and I'm sure God is real and his name is Phil Lester and I'm cumming and I  _ scream _ .

The orgasm pushes through me and the pent-up energy escapes out my mouth and my cock with the fervent energy of a prisoner breaking out after a six week sentence of unfulfilled desire. It leaves shivers and a fast heartbeat and whining breaths in its wake. I cum so hard it reaches Phil's chin. That only spurs him on; he pounds into me as hard and fast as he can. I watch his beautiful face contort with ecstasy as he calls out for me and releases into me.

And then it's all breathing. Our chests rise and fall in sync. Shared rhythm, shared oxygen, shared eye contact.

I push his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. Before I can pull my hand away, he grabs it and kisses it, never averting his eyes.

Almost as if he's the one worshipping me now.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I mean of course there was gonna be desk sex, this is me we're talking about.
> 
> Send all complaints and bible quotes to me on tumblr @americanphancakes


End file.
